Christmas with the Pontmercys
by CaptainHooksGirl
Summary: Marius sighed. He dearly loved his wife and his father-in-law, but he sometimes wondered whether they were too forgiving for their own good. He had no problem with their generosity—but he hadn't exactly planned on spending their first Christmas together sharing dinner with two women they'd picked up off the streets and an anti-social police inspector. Shoujo Cosette fic.


**Author's Note: First off I guess I should say that this fanfic is based primarily off the anime series Shoujo Cosette, which differs significantly in some parts from the original Les Mis, so if you're not familiar with the show, this story probably won't make much sense. Also, I would like to dedicate this story to my good friend KatherineNotGreat, as she has been begging me to do another Shoujo Cosette fic for quite some time. Kate, I know this isn't exactly the storyline you had in mind (and it's a little out of season), but I hope you like it. :) Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Les Mis or Shoujo Cosette.**

**Christmas with the Pontmercys**

A crisp December breeze whistled through the iron grating of the cells as the thick oaken door of the prison slammed shut, echoing down the halls with the finality of the blow that drives the last nail into a coffin lid. Javert shook the snow from his boots and blew a warm breath into his cupped hands, rubbing them briskly to get the blood flowing again. Taking a stance by the tiny coal stove that warmed the presiding officer's chamber, he removed his heavy outer coat and draped it over the back of a chair, cursing under his breath and muttering something to himself about the inconvenience of overly warm stoves when he noticed the newest singe marks near the base.

"That's the second time this week!" He frowned.

Although this particular coat had served him well for years, it was beginning to look a bit tattered, but new clothes were hard to come by, and purchasing such an extravagance as an extra greatcoat was not really within the financial means of his meager policeman's salary.

Javert sighed. Of all the jobs he could have been assigned to, he would have preferred anything else. Not that he minded being a prison guard—he'd certainly been one long enough in Toulon—but things had been different there. There, the prisoners had been forced to work outside or on a ship where the cool ocean breezes and salty sea spray had carried away the stench and stagnation of the unfortunate inmates. It had been a high-security prison, to be sure, but ironically, it had teased the tortured souls within with a little taste of freedom. Here, in Paris, things were different. Here, they crammed ten souls to a cell hardly big enough for two. Here, the prisoners never saw daylight and the stench of stale urine and body odors mingled with that of the rotting flesh of the diseased. It reminded him of home—and the memory sickened him.

A single barred window cast a moonlit shadow on the desk, his own sharp-featured silhouette seemingly entrapped within the phantom cell. Javert took one look at it and shuddered.

xxxx

It had been almost a year since Marius's full recovery from the barricade, a little over nine months since he'd married Cosette, and eight since Valjean had moved in with them. With the addition of Toussaint as well as Gavroche and the two little boys he'd taken in of the streets, the Gillenormand household was becoming a bit cramped, but it was a large house, and having finally reconciled with his grandson, Father Gillenormand wasn't about to turn away any of Marius's friends. Besides, he said, the house needed this—with children's laughter in the halls and newlywed bliss within the bedchamber, the old mansion was finally beginning to feel more like a home. They were a family again—torn and patched and stitched together again, but a family nonetheless. And slowly, tentatively, forgiveness turned to trust and trust blossomed into love.

So it was with some hesitance that Marius had agreed to the most recent addition to their little flock—an addition which he felt would result in unnecessary stress for everyone involved. But Cosette had insisted and Valjean had agreed, and while Father Gillenormand had raised a bushy white eyebrow and joked that if they continued in such a manner he was going to have to start charging rent, he had offered no objections. Gavroche had been the most upset, complaining that he had spent the majority of his young life trying to get Cosette away from the pair and he wasn't about to let them sleep under the same roof with her again, but when Cosette had welcomed them with open arms and showered them with the sympathy her good heart would have extended to any other homeless people wandering the streets on Christmas Day, he'd had little choice but to accept her decision. Chou-Chou had growled a little, hackles raised when they'd approached the door, standing protectively in front of his masters, but Cosette had merely patted him on the head and told him to "be nice."

Marius sighed. He dearly loved his wife and his father-in-law, but he sometimes wondered whether they were too kind for their own good. He had no problem with their generosity—after all, he'd been a poor student himself and had fought for the rights of the misfortunate in the failed rebellion—but he hadn't exactly planned on spending their first Christmas together sharing dinner with two women of questionable morals who they'd picked up off the streets—especially considering that those two women were none other than Madame Thénardier and Azelma.

xxxx

It was early the next morning by the time Javert arrived back at the station, looking a bit tired but otherwise none worse for the wear. He had hoped to return home and get some rest before his shift began again that evening, but just as the sun had breached the horizon, an officer arrived to inform him that his replacement would be a few hours late coming in and that he should report to the Prefect immediately after work.

He removed his hat as he entered the room, bowing a little out of respect. "You wished to see me, Monsieur le Prefect?"

"Ah, yes! Javert, come in." He paused. "Everything alright at the prison last night? No incidents?"

"None to speak of. There were a few minor brawls. A guard was caught drinking on the job—I suppose he decided to start celebrating early." He gave a disapproving frown. "Other than that, no. Nothing major. I have dealt with the prisoners and the officer in question as I saw fit and started filling out the necessary paperwork. It will be on your desk tomorrow."

Gisquet nodded. "Very good. I trust your judgment, Javert. I am sure you were fair."

"Of course, monsieur." The inspector frowned. The Prefect was usually very direct and to the point; only the most serious of conversations were preceded by such obvious attempts at smalltalk, and the news that inevitably followed was either very good or very bad. He bowed again. "Monsieur, I beg you to forgive my boldness, but I rather doubt that the reason you called me here was to give an oral report on the status of the prison which you will have a written copy of by the end of the week."

Gisquet grinned. "Perceptive as always." He pushed back his chair and folded his hands, suddenly looking serious. "Javert, I don't want you to come back to work tonight."

Javert looked stricken. "Monsieur, I-I don't understand…. Have I done something to displease you?"

"No, no! Quite the contrary! You're as diligent as ever—one of the hardest workers we have…which is why I'm giving you the night off. God knows you deserve a day of rest…." He laughed. "Well, don't look so upset! It's a _reward_, not a _punishment_, Javert."

Having managed to collect himself from his momentary shock, Javert persisted. "With all due respect, monsieur, you know as well as I do that we are always short-handed this time of year. Let the men with families go home if they wish." He shrugged. "It makes little difference to me."

In truth, Javert would have preferred to work. He liked to keep busy; to be idle was to be useless, and if he had the choice of being useless at home or useful at work—holiday or no—he would have chosen the latter. For some men, getting a day off meant time to spend with their family; for Javert, it meant time alone with his thoughts—time to reflect, to regret, to question—and although he had come a long way since the night on the bridge, if he dwelled on such things for too long, it became a sort of maddening torture—one he was not yet certain he was strong enough to face. For Javert, time off _was_ a punishment, though the Prefect apparently failed to see that, and while the thought of spending Christmas night in a prison or on the streets was not particularly appealing, the thought of spending it at home alone was worse.

"Tut-tut-tut. No excuses this time, Javert!" he said smiling. "You have an important meeting to attend, I believe, and I expect you to be there on time."

Javert frowned. "Pardon?"

Gisquet pulled an envelope from his desk drawer. "This arrived at the station last night. DuPont found it on your desk as he was leaving. I thought it best to give it to you this morning, as by the time your shift begins tonight, it would likely be too late to respond. The officer up front said it was rather urgent."

He handed the letter to Javert.

From the stationary alone, he could immediately tell that this was no ordinary summons. The envelope was crisp and white with gilded edges and a watermark on one side. There was no writing on it save for his name, written neatly in a cursive hand that seemed strangely familiar…. Javert turned the letter over and carefully broke the wax seal—a conjoined form of the letters "M" and "P," which he instantly recognized.

"Marius Pontmercy," he whispered.

Thus intrigued, he hurriedly removed the letter from the envelope. It read as follows:

_Monsieur le Inspecteur,_

_Your presence is requested at the Pontmercy residence this 25__th__ of December at precisely 5 o'clock pm to celebrate the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Dinner will be provided._

_M. Pontmercy_

There was no address given or needed; Javert had been to the house twice now—once when he'd assisted Valjean in delivering what he'd supposed to be a body to the boy's grandfather and again when Thénardier had made an attempt on the Baron's life. He supposed the young Baron had intentionally left out such information as a safety precaution in case the letter were to fall into the wrong hands; for although Javert had as good as sworn not to interfere further with Valjean's life, the remainder of the Paris police force had made no such promises. In fact, Javert doubted the boy would have even taken the risk of inviting him had his hand not been forced by someone…and he had a pretty good idea of who that someone probably was.

He shifted uncomfortably.

"Monsieur le Baron apparently delivered the letter himself," Gisquet continued, "so I assume whatever he wishes to discuss with you, it must be important." He grinned, thoroughly satisfied with himself in spite of Javert's sour expression. "Oh, come now, Javert. One Christmas party every fifty years or so won't kill you. It will be good for you to get out of the office and socialize."

The inspector did not respond.

"You know," the Prefect went on, "I never realized you had any connections with the Baron outside of work."

Javert chose his words carefully. "I have…been acquainted with the family of Madame la Baroness for quite some time."

He hoped he hadn't said too much. In the eyes of France, Valjean might have been dead, but one wrong word could easily set the police back on his trail—a situation which now would be disastrous not only for Valjean himself but would also likely cost Javert his job.

"Is that so?" Gisquet asked, genuinely surprised. "Well…I was…not aware of that." He frowned. "Why, if I had known, I would have given you the holidays off _ages_ ago! Javert, why didn't you tell me? I had no idea that…. Well, forgive me for being so blunt, but you were always so dedicated to your work and you never go out with the other men for drinks, so I assumed you preferred to be alone and…. Well, I didn't realize you _had _any friends…."

Javert said nothing but quietly considered the letter in his hand.

_Neither did I…._

xxxx

A quarter after four, Javert found himself wandering the streets. He wasn't entirely sure where he was headed or why he'd chosen his current direction, having no particular destination in mind. Walking simply gave him something to do, something to occupy his mind and his time until the holidays were over, the comfort of habit in place of his usual patrolling routine. He enjoyed the familiarity of it all, the quiet observance of a million other lives, each with a different story. He knew the faces, if not the names—the old woman who sat on the bench in the park every day, the little gamin boy with the withered leg, the beggar on the street corner near the church, the girl with too much rouge and too little clothing who was barely more than a child. He knew all their habits and their hang-ups, their sins and their sorrows. He knew who had a criminal record and who was practically a saint. He even knew a few who walked the line somewhere in between. He knew them almost as well as if they had been his family—and in some ways, they were. And yet, he watched them all with the detached curiosity of one whose role is solely that of observer, a scientist studying a society in which he had no place.

He passed a few children playing in the snow and paused to watch their game until he was noticed. Most of them cowered under his gaze, but a few stopped and waved. Javert acknowledged the gesture, touching the brim of his hat briefly before shoving his hand back into the deep pocket of his greatcoat and continuing on his way.

A cold gust of wind whistled down the alley, carrying the strains of Christmas carols on the breeze as he passed the cathedral of Notre Dame and—rather by accident—ended up at the Pont-au-Change once again. Here, he paused. After the fateful night of the barricade and the revelations that had followed, he'd never been able to cross the bridge without a twinge of guilt and remorse. Sighing, he leaned against the parapet, resting his arms atop the rail as he stared out over the river. The last time he'd found himself in such a position, he'd nearly ended it all, and the sunrise he'd thought he'd never live to see turned out to be his saving grace—a sign from God if ever there was one. But there was no sun today—only a thick blanket of gray clouds—and neither the river nor the sky held the answers he was looking for.

xxxx

Toussaint's cooking—outstanding at any time of the year—was particularly appreciated whenever the holidays rolled around. Marius's grandfather had arranged for a veritable feast, giving her an insane amount of money to purchase the necessary ingredients for what he referred to as, "a proper Christmas dinner—one fit for a king!" Together, she, Cosette, and Aunt Gillenormand—who despite her social standing still enjoyed helping out in the kitchen—had prepared enough food for a small army, which, to be fair, Marius supposed was necessary now, considering how many people were living in the house. Every once in a while, he'd catch Gavroche or one of the younger boys sneaking a roll out of the oven or a cookie off the tray, grinning with devilish pride at the cooks' apparent bafflement as to why their recipes weren't making quite as many servings as they should. He shook his head, smiling to himself. The mystery of the missing food items had not gone unsolved for long; Cosette knew _exactly_ where they had disappeared but chose not to ruin the boys' fun, acting just as surprised as the others and stifling a giggle when she overheard their bragging whispers in the hall.

While the women prepared the food and the boys pilfered it, Marius, Father Gillenormand, and Valjean worked on setting up the table, arranging gifts, and adding a few last-minute decorations. Valjean had cut the tree himself, a thickly boughed pine with soft, fluffy sprays of greenery projecting from each and every limb. It had been difficult to find such a tree this far in to the city, but gardener that he was, he knew the exact sort of growing conditions required, and short trip to the forest just past the outskirts of town had provided him with the perfect Christmas tree. Now, with candles winking brightly amid the sturdy boughs, it reminded Marius of the darkened, star-splashed sky on that very first Christmas night.

Madame Thénardier and Azelma, nearly as uncomfortable as Marius with their current living arrangement, sat quietly near the fire, grateful for the warmth and overwhelmed with the mouth-watering smells wafting out of the kitchen, but fearful of making a making a bad impression and feeling distinctly out of place in their moth-eaten coats and filthy rags. The irony was not lost on them that they had once been the ones who were nicely dressed and well-fed while Cosette, barefoot and hungry, had been forced to their work; now the tables were turned, and though time in prison had taught them to appreciate her plight, they had by no means expected such kindness when she'd encountered them begging on the street. They had a history with her—and with her father and her husband—that was not easy to forgive. But Monsieur Fachelevent—otherwise known as Jean Valjean—had dismissed their previous behavior without a second thought and, with his daughter's full approval, invited them to dinner and to stay as long as they needed to get back up on their feet. They had accepted, of course, as they could hardly turn down such an offer, but that didn't make things any less awkward. Cosette had been courteous enough, but she had soon disappeared into the kitchen, leaving her former step-mother and sister in the living room while she attended to preparations. And so, not knowing what else to do, they had remained in the position she'd left them.

Azelma's stomach grumbled loudly, and she fretfully hugged herself a little tighter, trying to ward off the hunger pains. It had been at least a month since they'd had a decent meal, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to avoid snatching something from the kitchen. But they were guests in this house, and she wasn't about to ruin their welcome by stealing from their hosts. She gave a little start when she felt something nudge her arm.

She gasped. "Gavroche!"

The boy looked up sheepishly at his sister and the mother he hadn't seen in ages. "Hi, 'Zelma." He held out a plate in his hand—a peace offering. "You want a cookie?"

xxxx

"Inspector Javert! Inspector, come quickly!"

Javert gave a frustrated sigh. One of the downsides to being a cop was that he was _never_ truly off duty. Having been stationed in Paris for quite some time with a reputation that preceded him, he was perhaps one of the most well-recognized, if not well-liked, policemen in the area, and it was nearly impossible to go anywhere without _someone_ calling on him for assistance—regardless of whether or not he was actually wearing the uniform. True, he enjoyed his work, and he _had_ just been complaining about getting the day off, but….

Reluctantly, he turned around. He would not shirk his duty—even if it _did_ happen to interrupt a perfectly good afternoon stroll. Crimes rarely occurred when it was convenient.

"What seems to be the problem, monsieur?"

The man, an elderly gentleman who Javert recognized as the local tailor, was dragging a young woman by the arm. He jerked her forward roughly, causing her to stumble, landing on her knees in a heap of snow at Javert's feet. The scene felt eerily familiar, and for a moment, when the girl looked up, he swore he saw Fantine. He had to shake himself to remember where he was.

"This woman was caught trying to break into my shop! Little witch assumed I'd already gone home and tried to force open the window. Lucky for me, I was still in the back room and heard the commotion when it happened. Stealing on Christmas! Can you imagine such a thing?!"

Javert ignored the man's question, looking pointedly at the woman, who refused to meet his gaze. She was shivering. "Was anything taken, monsieur?"

The shopkeeper shook his head. "I stopped her before she had the chance."

"And the window?" he pressed. "Was there any significant damage?"

The man scratched his head. "Well, no, but…aren't you going to arrest her?"

Javert looked up. "I shall do as I see fit. Whether that involves arresting her remains to be seen. Though I don't doubt your story, as nothing was taken or damaged, it would be rather difficult for you to press charges unless there was another witness. I will return if I have any further questions. For now, that will be all."

The man looked disappointed, but he could see the logic in the policeman's reasoning, and he didn't dare question Javert's judgment. "Of course, Inspector." He tipped his hat. "Good day."

He turned back to the girl. "_You_ will be coming with me."

There were tears in her eyes. "Please, monsieur! It won't happen again—I promise!" She clasped her hands in petition, bowing her face to the snow. She was beseeching him, _begging_ him. "Oh, please, Inspector! I can't go to jail! I can't!"

"Quiet!" he hissed. "Do you want to draw attention to yourself?"

She looked up, confused. "I'm…sorry?"

"As I am currently off duty, I would prefer not to have to take you in to the station. _If_ you are willing to cooperate, I _may_ be inclined to be lenient. But this is no place to talk." He offered her a gloved hand. "Come."

The girl stared at the outstretched hand for a moment before warily accepting. She was not a repeat offender; of that much, Javert was certain. If she had been, she would have tried to run or fight. Those who were used to a life of crime showed little respect for the law and were rarely ever so submissive. This girl was a first-timer, still inexperienced enough to get caught and respectable enough to feel guilt for what she had done. Judging from her clothes, he supposed that she had stolen out of necessity rather than malice; the dress wore was of a thin, summery material with sleeves that stopped above the elbows—hardly enough to keep her warm in the midst of snowy weather. It was still against the law, of course, but he couldn't help but think about another case where the criminal had stolen a loaf of bread…. If one act of kindness on the bishop's part could redeem Valjean, as Valjean's act of kindness had redeemed _him_, might he also be the vessel by which God could change the life of this woman on the street?

He led her to a deserted alleyway, pausing to check around the corners for anyone who might be listening in. He frowned for a moment, then nodded to himself, satisfied. He faced her.

"Did you, in fact, try to break into Monsieur Boulletrade's shop?"

She bowed her head. "Yes, monsieur."

_A confession_, Javert thought to himself. That was good. The woman might have been a thief, but she was not a liar.

"So you admit, then, that his accusations are correct?"

"Yes."

"So you are charged with breaking and entering and attempted robbery. Are you aware of the penalty for these crimes?"

She still did not look up. "No, monsieur."

"Four years. Five if you'd resisted arrest."

"F-five _years_?"

Her face had turned as white as the snow on his boots. For a moment, he feared she would faint.

"N-no, monsieur," she replied when she'd steadied herself. "I wutten aware that the sentence was so severe."

"And for good reason," Javert reminded her. "The law is designed to discourage such behavior. _However_, I shall allow you to explain yourself. Would you care to tell me _why_ you were breaking into the tailor's shop?"

"I…" She hesitated. "I-it's terrible cold, monsieur. I don't suppose you know what it's like—bein' out on the streets an' all…but it's awful hard tah live when ya ain't got no food in yer belly an' no roof over yer head. I couldn't afford one of them fancy coats—not even one of the old, cheap ones. I wuttna done it if it was just me I had tah worry about, but…."

She ran her chapped, reddened hands down the front of her dress, smoothing out the material until the hands came to rest lovingly over her stomach, which Javert could now see had the slightest bump.

"I know I done wrong, monsieur, but it woulda been wronger tah let my baby die 'cause I'd done froze tah death."

Javert considered the truth in her words. Stealing was wrong, of course, but it would be equally wrong, if not more so, to deny an innocent child life. And a jail—he knew from experience—was no place to raise a child. This, it seemed, was another case where the laws of God and man appeared to conflict. But this time, he knew from the start which path was right.

"Have you tried to find work?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, monsieur! I try all the time! But nobody'll take me on accounta my condition."

He thought for a moment. "Can you read?"

"Oh, no, monsieur." She lowered her eyes again, embarrassed. "I ain't that smart."

"Well, then…can you sew?"

"A little. I can cook real good, too. And clean. I used tah be a maid afore they kicked me out." She cocked her head to the side. "Why?"

"Hmmm..." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Do you know where the apartments are on the Rue St.-Denis?"

"Yes…."

"Go there and ask to speak with the landlady, Madame Blanchard. She has been looking to hire an assistant housekeeper for quite some time." He turned to leave. "Tell her Inspector Javert sent you."

"Ya mean…yer not gonna arrest me?"

Javert raised an eyebrow. "Would you prefer that I did?"

"Oh! No! Acourse not! It's just…. Well, I mean…."

He turned back around. "I'm letting you off with a warning this time—for the child's sake, you understand? I am giving you a second chance. Do not make me regret it. Because if I find out that anything has gone missing from any of the rooms—and I _will_ find out—you will be serving your full time. Is that understood?"

The tears had returned. "Oh, yes! Oh, thank you, monsieur! God bless you, monsieur!"

She started to leave.

"Wait!"

Javert removed the greatcoat from his shoulders and held it out to her. "Take this."

She backed away. "Oh, no, monsieur! I couldn't!"

"A half an hour ago, you had no qualms with stealing a coat off the rack. Now, when it is offered freely, you would not take it?"

"It's just…. It's just that you've already done so much for me, monsieur! I couldn't possibly ask you tah give me yer coat!"

"Consider it a gift."

"But…"

"I live at the apartments on Rue St.-Denis, so it is likely we will see one another again. If it means so much to you, you may return it to me once you've earned enough money to purchase your own. In the meantime, it is yours."

She accepted the offering, clutching it tightly against her chest. "Thank you, monsieur." She closed her eyes against the flood of tears. "Thank you."

xxxx

It was a little after five by the time Javert found himself in front of No. 6 Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. As he was already late, and as tardiness was something he could not tolerate in others—much less himself—he almost considered turning back around. But the part of him that was the dutiful servant, the one who always played by the rules, reminded him that to ignore an invitation—especially one from a Baron—without at least giving good reason for one's absence, was terribly rude and socially unacceptable. He therefore decided that the most reasonable course of action was to knock on the door and have the servant who answered deliver a message to Monsieur le Baron that he regretted to inform his host that he would be unable to stay for dinner, though he appreciated the gesture. Thus, having formulated his plan, it caught him completely off guard when, to his great surprise and dismay, it was not a servant but Valjean himself who opened the door. And then the former prisoner, who did not seem at all surprised to find the policeman on his doorstep, did something even more unexpected. He smiled.

"Javert! I was starting to think you wouldn't come." He paused. "It is good to see you again."

Javert removed his hat, fingers clenched tightly around the brim. "Monsieur, I…."

But the words failed him. How does one apologize to a man whose life he utterly ruined? A man who he had wrongfully, relentlessly pursued for decades across the country? Whose every waking hour he had made a living hell? If he hadn't been so blind, if he hadn't interfered, would Valjean still be the mayor of the town of Montreuil? Would Fantine still be alive? There were too many questions he didn't want to ask, too many answers he couldn't bear to hear.

Javert found that he could not meet the man's gaze, the crushing weight of the guilt and self-loathing he'd felt the night of the barricade returning with a vengeance that rendered him speechless. Once again, Valjean had become his superior again—morally, if not legally—and though he despised himself for it, a small part of him suddenly wanted to deliver the man up to the authorities—if only so he could be the one in control again. He had always been so sure of himself before, so certain of everything, but Valjean had changed all that, had taken everything he thought he knew about the world and turned it upside down. He doubted very seriously that Valjean realized just how deeply his actions had affected him or how close he'd come to killing himself that night. But that didn't change the fact that he _had_ had a very profound effect on the inspector's way of thinking, and though part of him was grateful for the enlightenment, the other part still yearned for the safety of the dark.

"Monsieur, I'm afraid I cannot accept your gracious invitation. I…I do not wish to intrude."

He felt the gentle, unexpected weight of hand on his shoulder and instinctively recoiled from the familiar gesture. Valjean, though unoffended, did not relinquish his hold.

"What's done is done. You cannot change your actions any more than I can change mine. But let us forget the past tonight. It is, after all, a time for peace. What better way to celebrate the birth of Forgiveness than by forgiving one another…and ourselves? Please, my friend…won't you join us?"

_Friend_. The word was as comforting as it was strange, an idea so foreign to him that he couldn't decide whether he should feel welcome in this man's presence or even more unworthy than he felt before. But the look in his eyes was unlike anything Javert had ever experienced, encompassing a range of emotions he'd once believed Jean Valjean wasn't even capable of—kindness, respect, compassion, brotherly love…and perhaps even a tiny bit of admiration.

Valjean frowned, noticing for the first time his companion's lack of his trademark attire. "What happened to your coat?" When Javert did not immediately respond, he shook his head. "Never mind. It's not important. But if you're not going to stay for dinner, at least come in out of the cold."

He stepped out of the doorway, beckoning toward the comfort of the sofa in front of the hearth. And Javert, still in shock and chilled to the bone, could do nothing but nod and numbly allow himself to be led inside.

xxxx

Javert had expected the dinner to be awkward; that was a given. What he had _not_ expected was just _how_ awkward it would be. It was bad enough he had to sit beside Valjean, bad enough he had to spend most of the afternoon staring across the table at Cosette, who looked so much like her mother it almost _hurt_ to look at her. It was bad enough that Marius and Gavroche were chatting gaily about their friends—friends who'd died at the barricade, friends whose death he was partially responsible for—or that the grandfather kept trying to entice him into the conversation or that the servant, Toussaint, kept piling food on his plate that he felt he had no right to eat. It was bad enough that the two surviving Thénardier women—who had just recently finished serving their sentence in jail and whose husband and father was STILL in jail because of _his_ arrests—also happened to be there. (And what on earth _they_ were doing there, he had no idea. By this point, he supposed that nothing Valjean did should surprise him, but somehow the man always seemed to have one more trick up his sleeve that Javert had never seen coming.) But what troubled him most of all was that no one acted as if anything were wrong. Every person in that dining room had a right to hate him for one reason or another…and yet they all treated him as if he was a part of the family, as if he belonged. Even Madame Thénardier and her daughter, who had been rather quiet at the start of the meal, eventually opened up with a little prodding from Cosette and Gavroche and were soon laughing and reminiscing with everyone else, affording him a few wary but genuine smiles right along with the others. And it made him sick—sick with the knowledge that these people could forgive him because how could they when he could not even forgive himself?

At the beginning of dinner, when Valjean had blessed the food, he'd blessed everyone in the room by name as well, thanking God for bringing them all together and praising each one's merits. Near the end, Cosette made a toast in honor of all their guests and drank to his health.

And it was _too much_! Too many sweet foods and sweet words. Too many smiles. Too much forgiveness. Too many people. It was stifling, smothering. So Javert kept to himself most of the evening, speaking only when spoken to, sipping quietly on the wine to calm his nerves and pushing the food around his plate because his stomach was in knots and the nausea made everything else unappealing.

He sighed. Valjean was a good man—a man to whom he owed not only his mortal life but quite possibly his immortal one as well. He could no longer hate him for his crimes. But he was starting to hate him for not reminding Javert of his.

xxxx

Javert sat in an armchair by the fire, watching the flames dance along the hearth. His own little apartment was rarely ever this warm, as it lacked a wood-burning stove and he couldn't always afford the luxury of coal. There was something about the atmosphere here that made him dread returning to that empty flat—not just the warmth of the fire but another kind of warmth his own home lacked. He couldn't quite say exactly what it was, but the very same feeling that had made him hesitate to come now seemed to bar his way to go. These people had a strange effect on him, one minute making him feel terribly uncomfortable, the next making him feel safe. It was frustrating! Frustrating and irritating and exasperating and…nice. It was nice to be wanted, to be spoken to as if he were a fellow human being rather than just another cop, to be accepted not because he was flawless but _in spite of_ his flaws. It was nice to be surrounded by people who knew the truth—knew what he had been and what he could be—and did not judge him for it…and yet, it troubled him.

A dark shadow coming up from behind alerted him to Valjean's presence. For a moment, neither said anything, Valjean resting an arm on the back of the chair as Javert contemplated the flames.

The inspector was the first to speak. "You have a wonderful family, Valjean," he said quietly. "You have raised your daughter well. Fantine would be proud."

There was a touch of longing in his voice, as if he knew that he was but a member of the audience, watching a marvelous story play out but knowing that he could never join in. He took in the sights around him—Cosette blushing as Marius gave her a peck on the cheek beneath the mistletoe; Madame Thénardier gossiping with Toussaint and Marius's aunt like they were old friends; Azelma admiring the new dress Cosette had given her; Gavroche laughing at the younger boys as they tried on Javert's top hat which was much too big for them and kept falling down over their eyes; the old man sitting across the room with a glass of wine in his hand and the massive white dog curled up at his feet—and it felt like home.

"Thank you," the policeman said. "Not just for your hospitality, but…before…."

There was a pause, then….

"You could be a part of it, you know—of the family."

Javert, who was not one given to sentimentality and who was not yet accustomed to the new amount of feeling that formerly wooden heart was now capable of, was unprepared for the sudden onslaught of emotion brought on by that word. That he, Javert, who had never known what it was to have a family at all, should belong to such an elite group; that he had been invited—by his former enemy, no less!—to call himself one of their own, was beyond his comprehension. He was overcome, overwhelmed. And he suddenly found that he could not speak.

Valjean, taking the silence as a sign of his discomfort and thinking that perhaps he had offended Javert, amended his offer. "Of course, I understand if you do not wish to be associated with me—with any of us. I know the consequences you risk by being here tonight. Nevertheless, the offer still stands, but I hope, at the very least, we may be considered allies, if not friends."

Having regained his composure, Javert spoke up. "I have no wish to be your enemy any longer," he said quietly.

Valjean smiled softly. "You never were."

Javert, suddenly angry, stood abruptly, whirling to face him. "You spoke of forgetting the past, well! Have you forgotten Toulon, Valjean?" He held up his hands, the unstained white gloves belying the bloodstains underneath. "Have you forgotten what these hands have done—that they have spilled _your_ blood?!" He looked to Marius, to Gavroche. "Have you forgotten what I was at the barricade—what my purpose was there?" He turned back to Valjean, a vicious horror in his eyes. "What about Fantine? Or have you forgotten that too? Does the girl even know?"

At the name 'Fantine,' Cosette looked up.

"Ah, but of course, the merciful Saint Madeleine neglected to tell her that little detail! Well, go on, then! Tell her! Tell her how I arrested her mother when she was nearly too sick to stand! Tell her how I would have sent her prison for six months for self-defense! Look your daughter in the eyes and tell her that the man you invited into your home is the reason her mother is _dead_!" He was panting, trembling from head to toe with adrenaline, with anger. All eyes were on him. He took a deep, shaky breath and closed his eyes. "_You_ may be able to forget all of that, Valjean," he whispered, "but I cannot. And that is why I can never be a part of this family."

When he looked up again, Cosette was standing before him, eyes bright with tears that were streaming down her face as she gently took his hand. "Monsieur, my mother was very ill. There was little hope for her recovery from the moment she entered the sisters' care. Your actions may have precipitated the inevitable, but you are by no means responsible for her death. I could blame you…but I could just as easily blame Papa for having his worker fire her from the factory or Madame for asking her for money that she did not have..." Her eyes darted upward. Valjean had bowed his head. Madame Thénardier was wringing her hands. "And yet, if they are at fault," she continued, "then I myself must be to blame the most of all. For if I had never been born, then she would not have had such difficulty finding work in the first place, would she?"

"You were a child," Javert countered. "You had no say over whether you wished to be born. You cannot hold yourself accountable for your mother's poor decisions."

"No, monsieur," she agreed tearfully. "And neither can you." She smiled sadly. "Perhaps none of us are to blame; perhaps all of us are. It does not matter now. None of us can change what happened. I _do_ miss her terribly, but I have a family now—a family that I love very much. And this family," she made a sweeping gesture of the room, "forged not with blood but with love—not by chance but by choice—is worth everything I have been through. It is enough."

Javert raised a gloved hand to his cheek, embarrassed when it came away wet. But upon looking up, he realized that he was not alone in his grief; there was not a single dry eye in the room.

Gillenormand coughed. "Well said, my daughter. Well said."

Marius, who was still standing in the doorway where Cosette had left him, took the opportunity to speak up. He stepped forward, eyeing Javert.

"Monsieur, it is true that you came to the barricades as a spy, but I know that it is also true that without you, my father-in-law would never have made it home with me alive. That makes _twice_ that you have saved my life, and when I saw you alive, it was the knowledge that Monsieur Valjean had spared you, in part, that encouraged me to reconcile with him. Furthermore, you may have chased my wife and father-in-law around the country, but it would seem that you managed to chase them right into my arms—and for that, I could never thank you enough." He smiled. "We have all made mistakes, monsieur. We have all done things to hurt one another because we thought we were doing what was best at the time, because we felt justified in our cause." He sent his grandfather and father-in-law an apologetic glance. "But I have learned that a man's past does not define his future and that by holding onto anger, it is not the person we are angry with but ourselves we end up hurting most of all. Monsieur, if ever there was a time for forgiveness, it is now. We have accepted the pardons you offered us. Please…won't you accept ours?"

Javert looked at the boy in front of him and saw not the foolish rebel he'd seen at the barricade, but a brave and honorable young man with wisdom beyond his years. He could see now why Cosette had chosen him and was thankful now more than ever that he had not been among the bodies left to rot out in the streets. He might not be the world's best law student, but he was a respectable young man—one who just might bring the change to the world his friends had wanted to see—though with words rather than bullets, with ink rather than blood. And if people could change for the better, why not governments and laws, too? Javert reflected on this idea and realized that if he was wrong about Marius, he might have been wrong about the other rebel leaders as well. Perhaps they'd been a bit extreme in the methods they'd chosen to carry out their cause, but who was he to criticize them when his own unyielding, inflexible interpretation of justice had done just as much damage? It was a strange feeling to empathize with the enemy, he mused—to see things through their eyes. In hindsight, their goals really hadn't been that different; they'd wanted to see justice done just as much as he did. Both soldiers and students had thought they were protecting the people; both had good intentions; both, to some extent, had failed. The barricades might have fallen, but the students' sacrifice had planted a seed of doubt in the minds of many, making them reconsider man's interpretation of God's laws. Things were already beginning to change—however slowly—and Javert had faith that, given time, they would get better. And so would he.

The chiming of the clock on the mantle drew everyone's attention. It would soon be time to attend the midnight mass. They had discussed plans during dinner to make it a family affair—a tradition new to some but one Valjean hoped would become something they would all look forward to every year. He turned to the policeman, offering his hand. "Well, Javert? What do you say to the offer?"

Javert hesitated for a moment before slowly reciprocating the gesture. "I accept," he said, shaking the hand warmly, "on one condition."

Valjean raised an eyebrow. "Which is…?"

The inspector smirked, peering down at the two young boys still playing with the top hat in the floor. "I believe," he said dryly, "that you owe me a new hat."


End file.
